Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

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"Listen, Mary, Dick is actually tryin' to sing, and he never could
turn a tune, but somehow it does warm up my heart to hear him: seems
like old times ag'in."

After dinner was over--and such a grand dinner it was--Grandpa Davis
voiced the sentiment of the rest of the happy family party when he
announced, quite without warning:

"Well, this here has ben the thankfulles' Thanksgivin' I ever seen,
and I hope the good Lord will spar' us all for yet a few more."




A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY[26]

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

A Cape Cod story about a wise old gander whose adventure on
the sea insured him against the perils of the Thanksgiving
hatchet. For boys or girls.


There is one sound that I shall always remember. It is "Honk!"

[Footnote 26: From "Zigzag Journeys in Acadia and New France,"
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company.]

I spun around like a top, one summer day when I heard it, looking
nervously in every direction.

I had just come down from the city to the Cape with my sister Hester
for my third summer vacation. I had left the cars with my arms full of
bundles, and hurried toward Aunt Targood's.

The cottage stood in from the road. There was a long meadow in front
of it. In the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs.
An old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a
long walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.

It was a sunny day, and my heart was light. The orioles were flaming
in the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in
the long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover. There
was a scent of new-mown hay in the air.

In the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails
and specks of boats. Beyond it rose Martha's Vineyard, green and cool
and bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.

I was, as I said, light-hearted. I was thinking of rides over the
sandy roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on
the bay; of clambakes and picnics.

I was hungry, and before me rose visions of Aunt Targood's fish
dinners, roast chickens, and berry pies. I was thirsty, but ahead was
the old well sweep, and behind the cool lattice of the dairy window
were pans of milk in abundance.

I tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles, and
beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the
thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.

"Honk! honk!"

My heart gave a bound!

_Where_ did that sound come from?

Out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes I saw a dark
object cautiously moving. It seemed to have no head. I knew, however,
that it had a head. I had seen it; it had seized me once in the
previous summer, and I had been in terror of it during all the rest of
the season.

I looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very
long neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body,
like a snake running away from a ball. It was coming toward me, and
faster and faster as it approached.

I dropped my bundles.

In a few flying leaps I returned to the road again, and armed myself
with a stick from a pile of cordwood.

"Honk! honk! honk!"

It was a call of triumph. The head was high in the air now. My enemy
moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow
farmyard.

I stood with beating heart, after my retreat.

It was Aunt Targood's gander.

How he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me
feel!

"Honk! honk! honk!"

The geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in
admiration. Then came the goslings--a long procession of awkward,
half-feathered things; they appeared equally delighted.

The gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it:
how a strange lad with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard;
how he had driven him back, and had captured his bundles, and now was
monarch of the field. He clapped his wings when he had finished his
heroic story, and sent forth such a "Honk!" as might have startled a
major-general.

Then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine
my baggage.

Among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels done up in
brown paper. Aunt Targood liked caramels, and I brought her a large
supply.

He tore off the wrappers quickly. He bit one. It was good. He began to
distribute the bonbons among the geese, and they, with much liberality
and good-will, among the goslings.

This was too much. I ventured through the gate, swinging my cordwood
stick.

"Shoo!"

He dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a
lively waddle toward me.

"Shoo!"

It was Aunt Targood's voice at the door.

He stopped immediately.

His head was in the air again.

"Shoo!"

Out came Aunt Targood with her broom.

She always corrected the gander with her broom. If I were to be
whipped I should choose a broom--not the stick.

As soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended
pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings
followed him.

"Hester, you dear child," she said to my sister, "come here. I was
expecting you, and had been looking out for you, but missed sight of
you. I had forgotten all about the gander."

We gathered up the bundles and the caramels. I was light-hearted
again.

How cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the
open window!

Aunt brought me a pitcher of milk, and some strawberries, some bread
and honey, and a fan.

While I was resting and taking my lunch, I could hear the gander
discussing the affairs of the farmyard with the geese. I did not
greatly enjoy the discussion. His tone of voice was very proud, and he
did not seem to be speaking well of me.

I was suspicious that he did not think me a very brave lad. A young
person likes to be spoken well of, even by the gander.

Aunt Targood's gander had been the terror of many well-meaning people,
and of some evildoers, for many years. I have seen tramps and pack
peddlers enter the gate, and start on toward the door, when there
would sound that ringing warning like a war blast, "Honk, honk!" and
in a few minutes these unwelcome people would be gone. Farmhouse
boarders from the city would sometimes enter the yard, thinking to
draw water by the old well sweep; in a few minutes it was customary to
hear shrieks, and to see women and children flying over the walls,
followed by air-rending "Honks!" and jubilant cackles from the
victorious gander and his admiring family.

Aunt Targood sometimes took summer boarders. Among those that I
remember was the Rev. Mr. Bonney, a fervent-souled Methodist preacher.
He put the gander to flight with the cart whip, on the second day
after his arrival, and seemingly to aunt's great grief; but he never
was troubled by the feathered tyrant again.

Young couples sometimes came to Father Bonney to be married; and one
summer afternoon there rode up to the gate a very young couple, whom
we afterward learned had "run away," or rather, had attempted to get
married without their parents' approval. The young bridegroom hitched
the horse, and helped from the carriage the gayly dressed miss he
expected to make his wife. They started up the walk upon the run, as
though they expected to be followed and haste was necessary to prevent
the failure of their plans.

"Honk!"

They stopped. It was a voice of authority.

"Just look at him!" said the bride. "Oh, oh!"

The bridegroom cried "Shoo!" but he might as well have said "Shoo" to
a steam engine. On came the gander, with his head and neck upon the
ground. He seized the lad by the calf of his leg, and made an
immediate application of his wings. The latter seemed to think he had
been attacked by dragons. As soon as he could shake him off he ran. So
did the bride, but in another direction; and while the two were thus
perplexed and discomfited, the bride's father appeared in a carriage,
and gave her a most forcible invitation to ride home with him. She
accepted it without discussion. What became of the bridegroom, or how
the matter ended, we never knew.

"Aunt, what makes you keep that gander year after year?" said I one
evening, as we were sitting on the lawn before the door. "Is it
because he is a kind of watchdog, and keeps troublesome people away?"

"No, child, no; I do not wish to keep most people away--not
well-behaved people--nor to distress nor annoy any one. The fact is,
there is a story about that gander that I do not like to speak of to
every one--something that makes me feel tender toward him; so that if
he needs a whipping I would rather do it. He knows something that no
one else knows. I could not have him killed or sent away. You have
heard me speak of Nathaniel, my oldest boy?"

"Yes."

"That is his picture in my room, you know. He was a good boy to me. He
loved his mother. I loved Nathaniel--you cannot think how much I loved
Nathaniel. It was on my account that he went away.

"The farm did not produce enough for us all--Nathaniel, John, and me.
We worked hard, and had a hard time. One year--that was ten years
ago--we were sued for our taxes.

"'Nathaniel,' said I, 'I will go to taking boarders.'

"Then he looked up to me and said--oh, how noble and handsome he
appeared to me:

"'Mother, I will go to sea.'

"'Where?' asked I, in surprise.

"'In a coaster.'

"I turned white. How I felt!

"'You and John can manage the place,' he continued. 'One of the
vessels sails next week--Uncle Aaron's; he offers to take me.'

"It seemed best, and he made preparations to go.

"The spring before Skipper Ben--you have met Skipper Ben--had given me
some goose eggs; he had brought them from Canada, and said that they
were wild goose eggs.

"I set them under hens. In four weeks I had three goslings. I took
them into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in
the yard. I brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that
gander.

"Skipper Ben came over to see me the day before Nathaniel was to sail.
Aaron came with him.

"I said to Aaron:

"'What can I give Nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him think
of home? Cake, preserves, apples? I haven't got much; I have done all
I can for him, poor boy.'

"Brother looked at me curiously, and said:

"'Give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard
and will have it for our Thanksgiving dinner.'

"What Brother Aaron said pleased me. The young gander was a noble
bird, the handsomest of the lot; and I resolved to keep the geese to
kill for my own use, and to give _him_ to Nathaniel.

"The next morning--it was late in September--I took leave of
Nathaniel. I tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful. I watched him
as he went down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms. A
stranger would have laughed, but I did not feel like laughing; it was
true that the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few
months, and came home hardy and happy. But when poverty compels a
mother and son to part, after they have been true to each other, and
shared their feelings in common, it seems hard, it seems hard--though
I do not like to murmur or complain at anything allotted to me.

"I saw him go over the hill. On the top he stopped and held up the
gander. He disappeared; yes, my own Nathaniel disappeared. I think of
him now as one who disappeared.

"November came. It was a terrible month on the coast that year. Storm
followed storm; the sea-faring people talked constantly of wrecks and
losses. I could not sleep on the nights of those high winds. I used to
lie awake thinking over all the happy hours that I had lived with
Nathaniel.

"Thanksgiving week came.

"It was full of an Indian-summer brightness after the long storms. The
nights were frosty, bright, and calm.

"I could sleep on those calm nights.

"One morning I thought I heard a strange sound in the woodland
pasture. It was like a wild goose. I listened; it was repeated. I was
lying in bed. I started up--I thought I had been dreaming.

"On the night before Thanksgiving I went to bed early, being very
tired. The moon was full; the air was calm and still. I was thinking
of Nathaniel, and I wondered if he would indeed have the gander for
his Thanksgiving dinner, if it would be cooked as well as I would have
cooked it, and if he would think of me that day.

"I was just going to sleep when suddenly I heard a sound that made me
start up and hold my breath.

"'_Honk_!'

"I thought it was a dream followed by a nervous shock.

"'_Honk! honk!_'

"There it was again, in the yard, I was surely awake and in my senses.

"I heard the geese cackle.

"'_Honk! honk! honk!_'

"I got out of bed and lifted the curtain. It was almost as light as
day.

"Instead of two geese there were three. Had one of the neighbours'
geese stolen away?

"I should have thought so, and should not have felt disturbed, but for
the reason that none of the neighbours' geese had that peculiar
call--that hornlike tone that I had noticed in mine.

"I went out of the door.

"The _third_ goose looked like the very gander I had given Nathaniel.
Could it be?

"I did not sleep. I rose early and went to the crib for some corn.

"It _was_ a gander--a 'wild gander'--that had come in the night. He
seemed to know me.

"I trembled all over as though I had seen a ghost. I was so faint that
I sat down on the meal chest.

"As I was in that place, a bill pecked against the door. The door
opened. The strange gander came hobbling over the crib stone and went
to the corn bin. He stopped there, looked at me, and gave a sort of
glad 'Honk' as though he knew me and was glad to see me.

"I was certain that he was the gander I had raised and that Nathaniel
had lifted into the air when he gave me his last recognition from the
top of the hill.

"It overcame me. It was Thanksgiving. The church bell would soon be
ringing as on Sunday. And here was Nathaniel's Thanksgiving dinner and
Brother Aaron's--had it flown away? Where was the vessel?

"Years have passed--ten. You know I waited and waited for my boy to
come back. December grew dark with its rainy seas; the snows fell; May
lighted up the hills, but the vessel never came back. Nathaniel--my
Nathaniel--never returned.

"That gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk. Birds
have memories. _He_ remembered the corncrib--he remembered something
else. I wish he _could_ talk, poor bird! I wish he could talk. I will
never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused. He _knows_!"




MON-DAW-MIN, OR THE ORIGIN OF INDIAN CORN[27]

BY H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT.

This is the real Indian fairy tale of the birth of
Mon-daw-min. Readers of Longfellow will remember his
treatment of the same subject in "Hiawatha."


In Times past, a poor Indian was living with his wife and children in
a beautiful part of the country. He was not only poor, but inexpert in
procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to
give him assistance. Although poor, he was a man of a kind and
contented disposition. He was always thankful to the Great Spirit for
everything he received. The same disposition was inherited by his
eldest son, who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the
ceremony of the Ke-ig-uish-im-o-win, or fast, to see what kind of a
spirit would be his guide and guardian through life. Wunzh, for this
was his name, had been an obedient boy from his infancy, and was of a
pensive, thoughtful, and mild disposition, so that he was beloved by
the whole family. As soon as the first indications of spring appeared,
they built him the customary little lodge at a retired spot, some
distance from their own, where he would not be disturbed during this
solemn rite. In the meantime he prepared himself, and immediately went
into it, and commenced his fast. The first few days he amused himself,
in the mornings, by walking in the woods and over the mountains,
examining the early plants and flowers, and in this way prepared
himself to enjoy his sleep, and at the same time stored his mind with
pleasant ideas for his dreams. While he rambled through the woods, he
felt a strong desire to know how the plants, herbs, and berries grew
without any aid from man, and why it was that some species were good
to eat and others possessed medicinal or poisonous juices. He recalled
these thoughts to mind after he became too languid to walk about, and
had confined himself strictly to the lodge; he wished he could dream
of something that would prove a benefit to his father and family, and
to all others. "True!" he thought, "the Great Spirit made all things,
and it is to him that we owe our lives. But could he not make it
easier for us to get our food than by hunting animals and taking fish?
I must try to find out this in my visions."

[Footnote 27: From "The Myth of Hiawatha."]

On the third day he became weak and faint, and kept his bed. He
fancied, while thus lying, that he saw a handsome young man coming
down from the sky and advancing toward him. He was richly and gayly
dressed, having on a great many garments of green and yellow colours,
but differing in their deeper or lighter shades. He had a plume of
waving feathers on his head, and all his motions were graceful.

"I am sent to you, my friend," said the celestial visitor, "by that
Great Spirit who made all things in the sky and on the earth. He has
seen and knows your motives in fasting. He sees that it is from a kind
and benevolent wish to do good to your people, and to procure a
benefit for them, and that you do not seek for strength in war or the
praise of warriors. I am sent to instruct you, and show you how you
can do your kindred good." He then told the young man to arise, and
prepare to wrestle with him, as it was only by this means that he
could hope to succeed in his wishes. Wunzh knew he was weak from
fasting, but he felt his courage rising in his heart, and immediately
got up, determined to die rather than fail. He commenced the trial,
and after a protracted effort was almost exhausted when the beautiful
stranger said, "My friend, it is enough for once; I will come again to
try you"; and, smiling on him, he ascended in the air in the same
direction from which he came. The next day the celestial visitor
reappeared at the same hour and renewed the trial. Wunzh felt that his
strength was even less than the day before, but the courage of his
mind seemed to increase in proportion as his body became weaker.
Seeing this, the stranger again spoke to him in the same words he used
before, adding, "To-morrow will be your last trial. Be strong, my
friend, for this is the only way you can overcome me, and obtain the
boon you seek." On the third day he again appeared at the same time
and renewed the struggle. The poor youth was very faint in body, but
grew stronger in mind at every contest, and was determined to prevail
or perish in the attempt. He exerted his utmost powers, and after the
contest had been continued the usual time, the stranger ceased his
efforts and declared himself conquered. For the first time he entered
the lodge, and sitting down beside the youth, he began to deliver his
instructions to him, telling him in what manner he should proceed to
take advantage of his victory.

"You have won your desires of the Great Spirit," said the stranger.
"You have wrestled manfully. To-morrow will be the seventh day of your
fasting, your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as it
is the last day of trial, you will prevail. I know this, and now tell
you what you must do to benefit your family and your tribe.
To-morrow," he repeated, "I shall meet you and wrestle with you for
the last time; and, as soon as you have prevailed against me, you will
strip off my garments and throw me down, clean the earth of roots and
weeds, make it soft, and bury me in the spot. When you have done this,
leave my body in the earth, and do not disturb it, but come
occasionally to visit the place, to see whether I have come to life,
and be careful never to let the grass or weeds grow on my grave. Once
a month cover me with fresh earth. If you follow my instructions, you
will accomplish your object of doing good to your fellow-creatures by
teaching them the knowledge I now teach you." He then shook him by the
hand and disappeared.

In the morning the youth's father came with some slight refreshments,
saying, "My son, you have fasted long enough. If the Great Spirit will
favour you, he will do it now. It is seven days since you have tasted
food, and you must not sacrifice your life. The Master of Life does
not require that." "My father," replied the youth, "wait till the sun
goes down. I have a particular reason for extending my fast to that
hour." "Very well," said the old man. "I shall wait till the hour
arrives, and you feel inclined to eat."

At the usual hour of the day the sky visitor returned, and the trial
of strength was renewed. Although the youth had not availed himself of
his father's offer of food, he felt that new strength had been given
to him, and that exertion had renewed his strength and fortified his
courage. He grasped his angelic antagonist with supernatural strength,
threw him down, took from him his beautiful garments and plume, and
finding him dead, immediately buried him on the spot, taking all the
precautions he had been told of, and being very confident, at the same
time, that his friend would again come to life. He then returned to
his father's lodge, and partook sparingly of the meal that had been
prepared for him. But he never for a moment forgot the grave of his
friend. He carefully visited it throughout the spring, and weeded out
the grass, and kept the ground in a soft and pliant state. Very soon
he saw the tops of the green plumes coming through the ground; and the
more careful he was to obey his instructions in keeping the ground in
order, the faster they grew. He was, however, careful to conceal the
exploit from his father. Days and weeks had passed in this way. The
summer was now drawing toward a close, when one day, after a long
absence in hunting, Wunzh invited his father to follow him to the
quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast. The lodge had been
removed, and the weeds kept from growing on the circle where it stood,
but in its place stood a tall and graceful plant, with bright coloured
silken hair, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves, and
golden clusters on each side. "It is my friend," shouted the lad; "it
is the friend of all mankind. It is _Mondawmin_. We need no longer
rely on hunting alone; for, as long as this gift is cherished and
taken care of, the ground itself will give us a living." He then
pulled an ear. "See, my father," said he, "this is what I fasted for.
The Great Spirit has listened to my voice, and sent us something new,
and henceforth our people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon
the waters."

He then communicated to his father the instructions given him by the
stranger. He told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he
had pulled off the garments in his wrestling; and having done this,
directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer
skin became brown, while all the milk was retained in the grain. The
whole family then united in feast on the newly grown ears, expressing
gratitude to the Merciful Spirit who gave it. So corn came into the
world.




A MYSTERY IN THE KITCHEN[28]

BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER.

The boy who has a sister and the girl who has a brother are
the ones who will best like this story of the spirited
twins, Jessie and Jack. Jessie wanted to take music lessons
and Jack tried mining in Colorado.


Something very mysterious was going on in the Jarvis kitchen. The
table was covered with all sorts of good things--eggs and butter and
raisins and citron and spices; and Jessie, with her sleeves rolled up
and a white apron on, was bustling about, measuring and weighing and
chopping and beating and mixing those various ingredients in a most
bewildering way.

[Footnote 28: From "Kristy's Surprise Party," Houghton, Mifflin Co.]

Moreover, though she was evidently working for dear life, her face was
full of smiles; in fact, she seemed to have trouble to keep from
laughing outright, while Betty, the cook, who was washing potatoes at
the sink, fairly giggled with glee every few minutes, as if the sight
of Miss Jessie working in the kitchen was the drollest thing in the
world.

It was one of the pleasantest sights that big, sunny kitchen had seen
for many a day, and the only thing that appeared mysterious about it
was that the two workers acted strangely like conspirators. If they
laughed--as they did on the slightest provocation--it was very soft
and at once smothered. Jessie went often to the door leading into the
hall, and listened; and if there came a knock on the floor, she
snatched off her apron, hastily wiped her hands, rolled down her
sleeves, asked Betty if there was any flour on her, and then hurried
away into another part of the house, trying to look cool and quiet, as
if she had not been doing anything.

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